And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with fever, "I have been ill—dreadfully ill—I believe delirious—I thought I should have died last night—I won't tell you what agony you have caused me—I won't reproach you. “Thanks to you. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go.
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